


Trigger-happy Jack

by crna_macka



Series: Heartaches by the Number [1]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:37:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crna_macka/pseuds/crna_macka
Summary: It's drag night at Purgatory's nearest gay bar. Hungry for a sense of community and space to relax, Nicole decides to check it out on her own, not expecting to find an all-too-familiar face.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic chosen by [redacted] votes, and I'm so glad those lovely people did! I'm so excited to get to deal with some underused queer themes in fanfic.
> 
>  **Warning:** the narrative is linked to a canonically gay character and uses some reclaimed language as appropriate for the scene.

It’s not that Nicole misses Calgary, per se. She’s glad to get some distance from the city, the old haunts, the too-familiar people. Nothing in Purgatory serves to bring up bad memories of the past; the town would much rather leave its own mark, and it turns out, this little corner of the middle of nowhere is pretty good at that. She’s nearly died twice - not counting the champagne incident - and got to punch a pathetically immature man-boy boy-man in the face, not to mention discovering demons and supernatural occurrences despite the sheriff and a secret government agency doing everything they could to cover it up.

She joked once with Waverly that _clearly_ there aren’t any queer people in town, because that kind of denial and slight of hand is nothing compared to the hoops most gays jump through all their lives. 

And then Nicole remembered that Waverly is new to all of this, and maybe she’s still jumping through hoops and maybe she’s not comfortable with the word “queer” yet, and Nicole misses that sense of community so much that it almost hurts. 

It isn’t until spring starts to thaw the whole world out that she does anything about that sense of loneliness, and it’s just by coincidence, even then. She’s on her way into work one morning and picks up a forgotten piece of paper from the sidewalk to throw away, but a word from the printed side jumps out at her: _DRAG_.

Thursday night drag show. She’s so astonished that she trips over the threshold to the lobby. The location is Big Boots, which is either innocuous or some inside joke that Nicole can’t decipher, and either way, she hasn’t heard of it so she goes straight to the internet for answers.

Big Boots is a dyke bar almost an hour’s drive from Purgatory. Their website looks like it’s from ten years ago, and their Facebook page is splashed with garish colors and bubble-letters, but both have been updated in the past month, and there does appear to be a night of drag coming up. 

“Something wrong, Haught?” Nedley asks as he approaches her desk, and out of habit, she minimizes the browser.

“What? No.”

“Your face, it...” The man gestures vaguely with his coffee mug and raises his eyebrows. Nicole is sure that’s not meant to mimic her own expression, which she has schooled to something resembling calm and pleasant instead of excited and surprised.

“Was just reading up on some local history,” Nicole says to save them both from the impending awkwardness. “Any excitement on the night shift?”

* * *

Waverly has to work Thursday evening, and Nicole knows that’s mostly disappointing but a tiny bit of relief to them both. Nicole _wants_ Waverly there, but she knows Waverly is still easing into the whole idea of being something other than straight. Waverly _wants_ to be with Nicole, but one-on-one is very different from being surrounded by a culture that’s never entered into her everyday life. So Nicole will check the place out first. Make sure Waverly won’t be overwhelmed. Hopefully soak in a good saturation of gay vibes to hold her over until the next time she can visit.

God, she misses being around her own people so much. She smiles ruefully at the thought as she looks at her wardrobe. She knows what she would have worn in the city: something light, eye-catching, something she could dance in all night and peel off without much thought. But that won’t work for a small town gay bar, especially when she’s not on the market.

She picks out a nice but comfortable pair of jeans and decides against any kind of hat. The camisole she wears just barely peeks through the unbuttoned vee of her subtle green flannel. She chooses sneakers instead of boots; she’s _really_ aiming for low-key tonight. Casual, not quite sloppy, nice but not showing off. Minimal makeup. Her hair, she leaves loose but sticks an elastic in her pocket.

And then, well, that’s that, isn’t it. She’s cleaned up nice, but not too nice, and it’s time to hit the road. Her stomach flip-flops at the first direction announced by the GPS; she almost feels like this is her first time out all over again, even though the real first time, she wasn’t alone, wasn’t driving.

Nicole's quiet laughter fills the car. Is she _nervous_? A grown woman, officer of the law, veteran lesbian - getting butterflies at the thought of a podunk watering hole? No. _More like meat market,_ her mind offers unhelpfully.

So she cranks up the radio and focuses on that instead.

Nicole was just eighteen at her first drag show. It was a mixed club, so the lineup was mostly queens. There were maybe two kings, both well-appreciated by the female clientele, and she only really remembers one because her friends had giggled and teased her for a week after he bought her a drink. 

The haze of memory settles her easily. Pride with those same friends. With her sister, too, one year. She’ll have to take Waverly up there this summer. It will be her first Pride, and Nicole can easily picture her loving it. All the joy and spectacle. Waverly would fit right in, for sure.

* * *

Big Boots isn’t that big, but it seems sizable enough for being such a rare and dying breed. The crumbling lot is hardly empty, even when Nicole pulls in. There are a few women smoking outside despite the chill in the air, and she can feel their eyes on her as she walks past them to the door. 

The place is a bit of a dive - not unexpected, if she’s honest - and there’s a cover charge for the show tonight. The rail-thin woman that takes her money has a hard smile and sharp gaze, unabashedly assessing the unfamiliar face. Nicole doesn’t want to take it personally, but she can’t immediately think of how to reassure the grizzled butch. So she smiles, as non-threatening as she can be, and shows herself right to the bar, to spend some more. 

The lights are low - lower than usual, she would guess - and the tables are arranged to accommodate the stage. There’s only one visible entrance, but if she had to guess, there might be an emergency exit by the bathrooms, probably one at the rear of the kitchen or whatever prep area is behind the bar. It’s not quite home, not enough neon and chrome, but it feels familiar enough. 

“First time here?” the woman behind the bar asks, obviously knowing but using the question to get Nicole’s attention.

“Yeah, been here eight months and just heard about it.”

“Mmhm, picked a good night to stop in. Should be quite a show. I mean, drag nights are usually pretty popular, but old favorites really pack them in.”

Nicole matches the woman’s easy smile. “Guess I better find a good spot before they’re all taken. Could I get a beer?”

She glances around as her order is filled and change is made. There are couples, trios, quads - a feminine squeal and the clatter of furniture from along one wall, then a roar of laughter from the young punks gathered there as they rib one of their own. It might be better to stand, or at least stay away from that group.

Nicole drifts toward the opposite wall, bottle in hand, and realizes she might not have a choice about whether to stand or sit. The tables are _full_ , and she can’t even begin to guess if the few empty chairs are just momentarily waiting for their occupant’s return. She finds a place to post up just in time for the house lights to fully darken and stage lights to come up, highlighting the femmed up - and heavily tattooed - little emcee, whose introduction is partly drowned out by the whistles and cheers of a nearby section of the crowd. 

First up are some newcomers, “Suit and Tie” and some standard Bowie, some upstart Bieber. There’s a good performance to something by Fall Out Boy, and in the middle of that Nicole feels a tap on her arm from the woman at a table behind her. She has to lean in to hear, “We’ve got an empty chair if you want it.”

Nicole smiles at the couple and takes them up on the offer, rolling the stiffness from the shoulder she had been leaning on.

“Now the shorties behind you can see, too,” the second woman says with a wink. “Everybody wins, eh.”

The room goes totally dark before the next number starts, a lonely trumpet bringing it in and a cool spotlight trained on a figure that gets those whistles and cheers going again. _“Well in 1941 a happy father had a son...”_

Nicole can only assume this is the old favorite the bartender mentioned. 

The king is lean and neatly dressed, jeans and a button-front and a vest, stetson and boots. The Nilsson song gives him plenty to work with without exaggeration. His manner is more reserved, playing the experienced gentleman against a sea of young studs. And the crowd adores him. 

Nicole is struck by a sense of familiarity that has her leaning toward her tablemates, asking, “Who’s this?”

“Jack.”

“Jack ‘Three Fingers’ Cassidy.”

Nicole snorts and rolls her eyes, but yeah, a simple “Jack Cassidy” wouldn’t be much of a stage name. It’s still giving her a vague sense of deja vu, though, and she looks back up at the king in time to see his hat come off, and it hits her -

She saw him a few years ago in Calgary. His features were softer then, or his makeup wasn’t as sharply contoured. He bought her a drink. They flirted. Her sister said she should have gotten his number, but Nicole had shrugged it off. The flirting is all part of the act.

“Is he local?” Nicole asks, interrupting the couple’s gushing after Jack’s number. There’s still something pulling at her memories. “I think I’ve seen him in the city.”

“Jackie boy? Oh yeah, he got his start right here. Probably wasn’t even legal to drink at the time.”

“But he did travel a bit, and then he disappeared for a while.”

“Came back and disappeared again. This is the first he’s been back since, what, August last year?”

“Maybe some girl finally got lucky.”

Nicole glances back at the stage. It’s empty now.

* * *

He’s picked a version of “Don’t Be Cruel” that looks like a better vocal fit than Elvis for himself. The song lets him be a little looser and more theatrical, a little more in line with his peers’ acts. He seems just as comfortable with that as he was with his “1941” routine.

Something in that comparison, some phrase in the current movement, brings back memories of “Piano Man.” Jack wasn’t as refined then, but his music selection is still about the same. Classics, not Top 40. It strikes Nicole that he wouldn’t - it’s a fleeting thought, but surely the king wouldn’t remember one girl from one night at some club. There have probably been hundreds of others, before and after.

She remembers, though. He had done “American Pie,” too. “Don’t Be Cruel” is lighter, snappier, and the playful smile that accompanies it is a nice addition to Jack’s stage act. It’s almost the same smile he’d had for her at the bar, but now it’s not meant for her or anyone in particular. Like Jack is just up there enjoying the show, like everyone else.

At the end, he breaks into a crooked grin at the applause, digging dimples into his cheeks. And for a moment, Nicole can’t breathe.

Her head spins through the final sets. She goes to the bathroom to splash water on her face and to the bar to get a glass with ice. She’s still there, her mind blank and racing, when Jack “Three Fingers” Cassidy closes out the night. The unmistakable intro to “Save a Horse” is too much.

She feels intrusive turning to watch, but turn she does, because she can’t _not_ watch this. She can’t, even though now she sees. It’s all there. Longer hair, coiled and pinned neatly but without hiding its natural waves. The defined cheekbones, the clean cut of jaw. The lean figure. The makeup doesn’t even have to work that hard to bring out Jack’s face. If he wasn’t under stage lights, Nicole would have spotted the similarities right away. She might not have even _seen_ Jack, for how often she sees Wynonna at work and in passing, nearly every day.

Some cop Nicole is, that it’s taken her this long to see. To make the connection.

Her drink sloshes dangerously when someone jostles her elbow, but Nicole barely acknowledges the contact. Jack’s working the crowd, pulling in more tips than his first two songs combined, and God, that wink and grin are so obvious.

Does Waverly know? She can’t imagine.

Suddenly, Nicole wants to know _everything_. This is the one thing not in the Earp files, and it’s _huge_.

In her mind. It’s huge. 

Nicole reels herself in and fights off the investigative instinct.

This might be the one thing Wynonna has to herself. One thing that Wynonna has been able to keep to herself for a long time. Maybe even longer than Nicole knows. Because she _knows_ this Jack is the Jack she met years ago.

* * *

Maybe Nicole doesn’t need to know everything, but she does need to know if Wynonna remembers. If Jack remembers. If Wynonna remembers? She shakes her head and sets her glass back on the bar very carefully. Regardless of what anyone remembers, Wynonna at least deserves to know that Nicole was here. 

And, Nicole thinks, she deserves to know Nicole recognized her. She deserves to know that now, rather than finding out later. Deal with that now, not later.

Nicole flags the bartender to order a peace offering - two of those, actually - then surveys the room, looking for any sign of Jack or Wynonna. She starts drifting toward the stage, then locks in a course when she spots the stetson. For some reason, it’s easier to think she’ll be talking to Jack. Jack’s easier to talk to, in Nicole’s limited experience; Wynonna is a hair trigger away from her cagey defensiveness.

But still, she reminds herself, under Jack’s skin, there’s Wynonna’s heart and history. Hopefully her preference for whiskey, too, but the point being - 

Jack’s entertaining a small group of admirers, including Nicole’s earlier companions. He’s got one thumb hooked into his belt and the other hand adjusting the brim of his hat and there’s a pull at the corner of his mouth as he graciously accepts the outpouring of compliments. There’s something about the set of his shoulders that draws Nicole’s attention, and before she knows it, she’s pressing one of the glasses of whiskey into his hands.

Jack starts to thank her before he even looks up, and he somehow manages not to falter even though his smile goes tight. He hides the narrowing of his eyes behind a long sip.

“You were in Calgary a while back,” Nicole prompts, giving him a small smile. “I thought I’d buy this time around.”

“I haven’t been to the city in years.”

Blue eyes are still guardedly sizing her up, but Nicole only shrugs and glances at the other women. “What can I say? I have a good memory.”

“I bet you do,” one of her earlier companions chuckles. Nicole is grateful for the levity - it relaxes Jack, and he raises his glass in acknowledgement before tossing the rest of it back. Nicole steps back out of the circle but offers him the second glass. He takes it without hesitation.

“If you’ll excuse us, ladies,” Jack says, touching the brim of his hat again with his free hand. “It would seem I have some... catching up to do.”

His voice seems different from their first meeting, and not simply a lower register of Wynonna’s. A dated refinement and drawl, a casual air that doesn’t have to work at charm. More mature, maybe. Definitely influenced by Henry. But then, Jack’s eyes are also full of Wynonna’s own well-founded mistrust.

To Nicole’s mild surprise, they don’t leave the room, merely moving to a secluded corner table for a small measure of privacy. Jack pulls out one of the chairs for her then seats himself. “You don’t remember me,” Nicole says, making it clear she’s talking to Jack.

The king removes his hat carefully, eying Nicole for some sign that this might be a trap. “No, I’m afraid not,” he says slowly. “I don’t remember much from those days. I was sober as a judge for most of it.”

“You bought me a drink,” Nicole recounts. “Out of the four or five girls I was there with, me. You said I -”

She cuts off the memory, remembering there’s another side of Jack. A side related to the girl she's dating now.

“Anyway, you looked good tonight. Really good. I love your new songs.”

“Why thank you.” Jack slouches back, casual and open and apparently pleased with the compliment. His drink is still on the table, fingers of one hand tracing and tapping the glass, but the liquid hasn’t touched his lips yet. Nicole wonders if that’s a good sign.

“Is Billy Joel still in your lineup?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Which one did you see?”

“‘Piano Man.’”

The noise Jack makes is vaguely amused and mostly smothered. “That _was_ a good while back.”

“I was eighteen,” Nicole hears herself saying. “Wow, that makes me sound so...” She laughs. “Sorry, it was my first drag show. You made an impression.”

Jack breaks eye contact, fingertip tracing the rim of the glass as his tongue traces the edge of his lower lip. “Well. I am... flattered.” His gaze darts to Nicole, then slips away to the room at large. “Present company excluded, it’s not really for everyone.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Jack gives her a pointedly sidelong look. “No offense, but I’d bet money that you don’t. In fact, I rather doubt you’ve ever felt the need to disappear in your whole life.”

Nicole feels her face flush. “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand when others do. I work in law enforcement. I get why some people - good people - go into hiding. Or walk away from their lives and start over.”

Jack’s eyebrows quirk and he hums in acknowledgement. He finally picks up the glass, swirls the contents, and takes a sip. “Sounds like you’ve met my mother,” he says, and Nicole is sure the lightness of his tone must be fake. 

She wonders, briefly, if part of why Wynonna created Jack was related to her mother’s disappearance. Or was that too obvious a reason for the elusive Earp. Or if that was too Psych 101 to apply in any case.

The glass returns to the table. Empty.

“You said you’re from Calgary? Don’t suppose I’ll have the pleasure of your company again any time soon,” Jack says.

“I live around here now,” Nicole clarifies. “And apparently this is the only safe space even remotely close to my town.”

Jack places his hand on his stetson. “If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t look like the bar hoppin’ type.”

“I guess, but my girlfriend -”

Jack’s laugh holds a dark hint of Wynonna as he sets the hat on his head. “Girlfriend, of course. Bit of advice from a local? You’re better off showing her a good time up in Calgary.”

Nicole can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment watching Jack rise to his feet, straighten his vest, and recapture the empty glass. He pauses a moment, leaning back down to smile and wink. “I do appreciate you making the first move. Thank you.”

He raises the tumbler in imitation of a toast then turns on heel, not waiting for her response.

* * *

Nicole feels hungover the next day, despite barely drinking at the bar or when she finally got home. Her mind is fogged with questions and replaying the night before - the night _years_ before, and every little memory of Wynonna since she arrived last August. She catches herself tracing the other woman’s features at work, mentally overlaying Jack, switching him out again for Wynonna. 

Wynonna only catches her once. And she says nothing.

They don’t talk about it. Nicole doesn’t approach Wynonna, and Wynonna acts like nothing has changed.

And in the evening, when Waverly excitedly announces that she’s pretty sure she can get someone to cover her shift next time Nicole wants to go out, Nicole knows without looking that Wynonna is absolutely still with ears tuned to the conversation she wants no part of.

Waverly has no idea.

“Sure,” Nicole agrees with a smile that somehow doesn’t feel fake. “But definitely not in the middle of the work week. That was a hellish drive that late at night.”

Waverly lights up with a megawatt grin and snuggles in closer on the couch, squeezing Nicole’s arm happily. “You know, you should _definitely_ sleep here if you’re too tired to drive home...”

Wynonna makes a gagging noise and drags herself from the nearby chair. “Ugh, I’d say ‘get a room,’ but...”

“I know, I know,” Waverly singsongs. “We’ll just take any room but yours.”

“That’s my girl,” Wynonna says, raising a fist in silent cheer before taking her leave.

Nicole watches her go. The pull of the thin cotton tee across her back, the outline of her bra rising through. The sway of her hips that was missing last night, but the empty glass familiar in her hand. Not a hint of Jack; nothing but the impression he left on her.

**Author's Note:**

> The development of Jack Cassidy is largely due to [this photo shoot](http://chokingthecherry.tumblr.com/post/146681593785/oh-shit-dfsajdflsafd-full-set-here) and so much love for the complexity of Wynonna's character. And [Beagles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Girlblunder/pseuds/beaglesinbowties), of course.


End file.
